With more of thanks and less of With whom I feast I do not fawn,

BYRON.

SPECTACLES, OR HELPS TO READ.

A CERTAIN artist

I've forgot his name -
Had got, for making spectacles, a fame,

Or "helps to read,' as, when they first were sold,
Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold;
And, for all uses to be had from glass,
His were allowed by readers to surpass.

There came a man into his shop one day-
"Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?"
"Yes, sir," said he; I can in that affair
Contrive to please you, if you want a pair."
"Can you? pray do then."

So, at first, he chose

To place a youngish pair upon his nose;

And book produced to see how they would fit:

Asked how he liked 'em? "Like 'em? not a bit."

"Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try,

These in my hand will better suit your eye.'

"No, but they don't." "Well, come, sir, if you please,

Here is another sort, we'll e'en try these;

Still somewhat more they magnify the letter;

Now, sir?"

66

'Why, now I'm not a bit the better."
"No? here, take these, that magnify still more;
How do they fit ?" "Like all the rest before."

In short they tried a whole assortment through.
But all in vain, for none of 'em would do.

The operator, much surprised to find

So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind!
"What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he.
"Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see.'
'Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball-

66

Pray, let me ask you, can you read at all?”
"No, you great blockhead; if I could, what need
Of paying you for any helps to read ?'"
And so he left the maker in a heat,

Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.

To Love in my heart, I exclaimed, t'other morning,
Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning;
Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty,
To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty.
For weary's the wooing, ah! weary,

When an old man will have a young dearie.

The god left my heart, at its surly reflections,
But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections,
And he made me forget what I ought to remember,
That the rosebud of June cannot bloom in November.
Ah! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days-
Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies.

But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching,
That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching;
And the only new lore my experience traces,

Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces.

How weary is wisdom, how weary!

When one sits by a smiling young dearie!

And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her,

I will turn and retort on my lovely aceuser;

Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted?
It is you, the enchantress - not I, the enchanted.

-

Would you have me behave more discreetly,
Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM

AN original something, fair maid, you would win me
To write- but how shall I begin?

For I fear I have nothing original in me-
Excepting Original Sin!

GEORGE CANNING.

THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN. | This faded form! this pallid hue!

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Sweet kerchief, checked with heaven-
blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in

Alas, Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew,

Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view: Forlorn I languished at the University of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

This blood my veins is clotting

in!

My years are many- they were few
When first I entered at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion

grew,

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tutor, law professor at the U

niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

WILL CARLETON.

THE NEW-YEAR'S BABY.

"Th'art welcome, litle bonnie bird,

But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did.

Teimes are bad." - Old English Ballad.

HOOT, ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way

Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day
Knowin' that we already have three of ye, and seven,

An' tryin' to make yerself out a New-Year's present o' heaven!

Ten of ye have we now, sir, for this world to abuse,

An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat; and Nellie she have no shoes;
And Sammie he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his shame);
And the one that was just before you we a'n't had time to name.

An' all the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folks fall;
An' boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight;
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night.
An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somew'at to do,
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,
An' but for your poor, dear mother a-doin' twice her part,
Ye'd 'a' seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start.
An' now ye have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,
A weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound;
With your mother's eyes a-flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,
An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready to be filled.

No, no, don't cry, my baby; hush up, my pretty one.
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, my boy; I only was just in fun.
Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'ous folks;
But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes.
Why, boy! did ye take me in earnest ? Come, sit upon my knee.
I'll tell ye a secret, youngster; I'll name ye after me;

Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play;

An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day.

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,

But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;

An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still them's yer brothers there,

An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair.

Say, when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear,

Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? That was yer little sister; she died a year ago.

An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow.

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew

Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,
I'd show 'em to the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd,
Before I'd sell to another my New-Year's gift from God.